by Muriel Spark
He had requested the C.I.D. to check further on Matthew O’Brien. And they had found him quite quickly, in a mental home in Folkestone where he had been resident for more than forty years.
“And so,” said Mortimer to his wife, “you look for one thing and you find another.”
“Do Janet and Ronald Sidebottome know anything of this husband?” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Yes, they remember him quite well. Lisa went touring Canada with him. They didn’t hear from her for a year. When she turned up again she told them he had been killed in an accident.”
“How long has he been in this mental home?”
“Since 1919—a few months after their marriage. Janet is going down to identify him tomorrow.”
“That will be difficult after all these years.”
“It is only a formality. The man is undoubtedly Matthew O’Brien whom Lisa Brooke married in 1918.”
“And she said he was dead?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Well, what about Guy Leet? Didn’t she marry him? That make them bigamists, doesn’t it?”
“I shouldn’t think for a moment Guy knew the man was still alive. Everyone, apparently believed he was dead.”
“The police won’t trouble poor Guy about it?”
“Oh, the police won’t bother him now. Especially at his age.”
“What a woman,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “that Lisa Brooke was. Well, I expect her money—Oh, what will happen to her money, now? Guy Leet is surely—”
“That’s a question, indeed. Lisa’s fortune belongs to Matthew O’Brien by rights, sane or insane.”
Henry went out into the garden and said to his squealing grandson,
“What’s all this racket going on?” He rolled him over and over on the warm stubbly grass. He picked up the child and threw him into the blue sky and caught him again.
“He’ll throw up his breakfast,” remarked Emmeline, who stood with her head on one side, and smiled proudly at the child.
“Up-up-ee,” demanded the child.
Henry rolled him over and over, left him yelling for more, and went indoors to catch Alec Warner on the telephone before he should go out.
“You’re interested in the St. Aubrey’s Home at Folkestone?” Henry said.
“Yes. But only in the older patients. I’ve been visiting them on private research for ten years.”
“Do you know a man there called Matthew O’Brien?”
“Matt O’Brien, oh yes, a private patient. A dear old chap, nearly eighty. He’s bedridden now. Quite batty, of course, but he always knows me.”
“Were you thinking,” said Henry, “of going down there any time this week?”
“Well, I only go once a month, as a rule, and I went last week. Is there anything special?”
“Only,” said Henry, “that Janet Sidebottome has agreed to go down to Folkestone tomorrow to identify Matthew O’Brien. I won’t go into details, but if you would care to accompany her, since you are acquainted with the home, it would be a kindness to Janet who will probably be distressed. Ronald can’t go with her, he’s in bed with a chill.”
“What has Janet Sidebottome to do with Matt O’Brien?”
“Can you go?” said Henry.
“Yes,” said Alec.
“Then Janet will explain everything. Do you know her number?”
“Yes,” said Alec.
“And one of our men will be there to meet you.”
“A copper?” said Alec.
“A detective,” said Mortimer. “The affair might be of some incidental interest to you.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Alec.
Janet said, “It is all most distressing. Ronald should have been here to assist me. He met Matthew several times. It can’t think why Ronald should have a chill in this fine weather.”
Alec shouted above the rattle of the taxi.
“No need to be distressed. I shall do my best to replace Ronald.”
“Oh, no, don’t distress Ronald,” she said. “I only meant—”
He gave her a smile. She sadly adjusted her hearing equipment, and said, “My hearing is rather poor.”
“You may not be able to recognise Matt O’Brien,” he articulated. “He’s an old man, and the years of insanity may have changed him beyond recognition. They get drugs, you know, and then the drugs have an affect on the appearance. But don’t worry if his features are not familiar to you. I think the authorities already have evidence that he’s Lisa’s husband. They have Lisa’s signature, for instance, from the time of his admission.”
“I will do my best,” said Janet. “But it is a distressing experience.”
“He is gentle,” shouted Alec. “He thinks he is God. He has never been violent.”
“I am distressed about my late sister,” Janet said. “I don’t like to admit it, but I must; Lisa was never straight in her dealings. It is a blessing she was never found out in this business.”
“It would have been bigamy,” said Alec.
“It was bigamy,” she said. “There was no excuse for Lisa, she had every opportunity in life. But it was the same when she was a girl. She caused our dear father a great deal of sorrow. And when Simon Brooke divorced her, there was all that scandal. Scandal was serious in those days.”
“What did you think of Matt O’Brien at the time?”
“Well, he was an Irishman, a lawyer. He talked a great deal, but then he was an Irishman, and he was quite charming. And do you know, when Lisa told me he was dead, I could hardly believe it. He had seemed to me so lively. Of course, we did not suspect the truth. It is very distressing.”
“It will soon be over,” said Alec. “We shall not be with him for long.”
The interview with Matt O’Brien was soon over. The detective met them in the hall and a nurse took them up to Matt’s room where he lay on his pillow among his loose white hair.
“Hallo, Matt,” said Alec, “I’ve brought two friends of mine to see you.”
The detective nodded to the old man and stood back discreetly and formally beside the nurse.
Janet approached his bedside and lifted his limp hand in greeting. He raised his other hand in benediction.
The old man moved his pale eyes towards Alec.
“It’s you, Alec,” he said in a blurred voice, as if his tongue were in the way.
“I was wondering,” said Alec, “if you remember a lady called Lisa, at all? Lisa Brooke. Lisa Sidebottome.”
“Lisa,” said the old man.
“You don’t remember Lisa—a red-haired lady?” said Alec.
“Lisa,” said the old man, looking at Janet.
“No, this isn’t Lisa. This is her sister, Janet. She’s come to see you.”
The old man was still looking at Janet.
“Don’t you remember Lisa?—Well, never mind,” said Alec.
The old man shook his head. “I recollect all creatures,” he said.
“Lisa died last year,” Alec said. “I just thought you might know of her.”
“Lisa,” said the old man and looked out at the sky through the window. It was a bright afternoon, but he must have seen a night sky full of stars. “My stars are shining in the sky,” he said. “Have I taken her to Myself?”
Janet was served with tea downstairs and invited to put her feet up for a while.
She put away her handkerchief. “I did not,” she said, “at first find any resemblance. I thought there must be a mistake. But as he turned his head aside to the window, I saw the profile, I recognised his features quite plainly. Yes, I am sure he is the same Matthew O’Brien. And his manner, too, when he spoke of the stars….”
Alec declined tea. He took a notebook from his pocket and tore a page from it.
“Will you excuse me if I scribble a note to a friend? I have to catch the post.” He was already scribbling away when Miss Sidebottome gave him leave to do so.
DEAR GUY—I believe I shall be the first to give you the following
information.
A man named Matthew O’Brien has been discovered, who was already married to Lisa when you married her.
Mortimer will give you the details, which have now been fully established.
As it happened, I have been visiting this man, in the course of research, at St. Aubrey’s Home for mental cases, for the past ten years, without suspecting any such association.
I imagine there will be no blame imputed to you. But of course, as your marriage with Lisa was invalid, you will not now benefit from her estate. Lisa’s money, or at least the great bulk of it, will of course go to her legal husband—I fancy it will be kept in trust for him as he is mentally incapacitated.
Be a good fellow, and, immediately on reading this letter, take your pulse and temperature, and let me know…
Alec begged an envelope from the receptionist. He slipped in his note, and addressed and stamped it. He slid the letter into the post-box in the hall, and returned to comfort Janet.
Alec felt, when he left Janet Sidebottome’s hotel after escorting her painfully home, that he had had a fruitful though exhausting day.
Reflecting on Matt O’Brien’s frail and sexless flesh and hair on his pillow, and how the old man had looked back and forth between Janet and himself, he was reminded of that near-centenarian, Mrs. Bean, who had replaced Granny Green in the Maud Long Ward. So different from each other in features, they yet shared this quality, that one would not know what was their sex from first impressions. He resolved to make a note of this in Matt O’Brien’s case-history.
He felt suddenly tired and stopped a taxi. As it drove him home he ruminated on the question, why scientific observation differed from humane observation, and how the same people observed in these respective senses, actually seemed to be different people. He had to admit that Mrs. Bean, for instance, to whom he had not paid close attention, had none the less rewarded him with one of those small points of observation that frequently escaped him when he was deliberately watching his object. However, the method he had evolved was, on the whole, satisfactory.
A fire-engine clanged past. Alec leaned in his corner and closed his eyes. The taxi turned a corner. Alec shifted his position and looked out into the evening. The taxi was purring along the Mall towards St. James’s Street.
The driver leaned back and opened the communicating window.
“A fire somewhere round here,” he said.
Alec found himself on the pavement outside his block of chambers, in a crowd. There were policemen everywhere, smoke, people, firemen, water, then suddenly, a cry from the crowd and everyone looking up as a burst of flame shot from the top of the building.
Alec pushed through to the inner edge of the crowd. A policeman barred his way with a strong casual arm. “I live here,” Alec explained. “Let me pass, please.”
“Can’t go in there,” said the policeman. “Stand back, please.”
“Get back,” shouted the crowd.
Alec said, “But I live there. My things. Where’s the porter?”
“The building is on fire, sir,” said the policeman.
Alec made a rush advance and got past the policeman into the smoke and water at the entrance to the building. Someone hit him on the face. The crowd fell back as a wave of smoke and flame issued from a lower window. Alec stood and looked into the interior while another policeman from the opposite side of the crowd walked over to him.
“Come back,” said the policeman, “you’re obstructing the firemen.”
“My papers are up there,” Alec said.
The policeman took him by the arm and pulled him away. “There is a cat,” Alec said desperately, “in my rooms. I can’t let pussy burn. Let me dash up and let her out. I’ll take the risk.”
The policeman did not reply, but continued to propel Alec away from the fire.
“There’s a dog up there. A beautiful husky from a polar expedition,” Alec haggled. “Top floor, first door.”
“Sorry, too late guvnor,” said one of the firemen. “Your dog must have had it by now. The top storey’s burnt out.”
One of the residents among the crowd said, “There are no pets in those flats. Pets are not allowed.”
Alec walked away, he went to his club and booked a room for the night.
Chapter Sixteen
The summer had passed and it was Granny Bean’s birthday, for which the ward had been preparing for some days.
There was a huge cake with a hundred candles. Some men from the newspapers came in with their cameras. Others talked a while to Granny Bean, who was propped up in a new blue bed-jacket.
“Yes,” Granny Bean answered them in her far-away flute, “I’ve lived a long time.”
“Yes,” said Granny Bean, “I’m very happy.”
“That’s right,” she agreed, “I seen Queen Victoria once as a girl.”
“What does it feel like to be a hundred, Mrs. Bean?”
“All right,” she said weakly, nodding her head.
“You mustn’t tire her,” Sister Lucy who had put on her service medal for the occasion, told the newsmen.
The men took down notes from the sister. “Seven children, only one now alive, in Canada. Started life as a seamstress hand at the age of eleven….”
The matron came in at three o’clock and read out the telegram from the Queen. Everyone applauded. Granny Valvona commented, “‘…on your hundredth birthday,’ doesn’t sound quite right. Queen Mary always used to say, ‘on the occasion of your centenary.’” But everyone said it came to the same thing.
The matron stood proxy for Granny Bean in blowing out the candles. She was out of breath by the twenty-third. The nurses took turns to blow out the rest.
They were cutting the cake. One of the newsmen called, “Three cheers for Granny Bean.”
The hilarity was dying down and the men had gone by the time the normal visitors started to arrive. Some of the geriatrics were still eating or doing various things with their slice of cake.
Miss Valvona adjusted her glasses and reached for the newspaper. She read out for the third time that day: “‘September 21st—to-day’s birthday. Your year ahead: You can expect an eventful year. Controversial matters may predominate from December to March. People associated with music, transport, and the fashion industry will find the coming year will bring a marked progress.’ Now, were you not connected with the fashion industry, Granny Bean? It says here in black and white…”
But Mrs. Bean had dropped asleep on her pillow after the nurse had given her a warm drink. Her mouth was formed once more into a small “O” through which her breath whistled faintly.
“Festivities going on?” said Alec Warner, looking around at the party decorations.
“Yes, Mrs. Bean is a hundred to-day.”
The deep lines on Alec’s face and brow showed deeper. It was four months since he had lost his entire notes and records in the fire.
Jean Taylor had said, “Try to start all over again, Alec. You will find a lot of it will come back to your mind while you work.”
“I could never trust my memory,” he had said, “as I trusted those notes.”
“Well, you must start all over again.”
“I haven’t got it in me,” he said, “to do that at my age. It was an accumulation of years of labour. It was invaluable.”
He had seldom, since then, referred to his loss. He felt, sometimes, he said once, that he was really dead, since his records had ceased to exist.
“That’s rather a metaphysical idea for you, Alec,” she said. “For in fact you are not dead, but still alive.”
He told her, it was true he frequently went over his vast notebooks in his mind, as through a card index. “But never,” he said, “shall I make another note. I read instead. It is in some ways a better thing.”
She caught him looking almost desirously at Granny Bean on her hundredth birthday. He sighed and looked away.
“We all appear to ourselves frustrated in our old age, Alec, because we cling to e
verything so much. But in reality we are still fulfilling our lives.”
“A friend of mine fulfilled his yesterday.”
“Oh, who was that?”
“Matt O’Brien in Folkestone. He thought he was God. He died in his sleep. He has left a fortune, but never knew about it. Lisa’s money of course. No relatives.”
“Will Guy Leet—?”
“No, Guy has no claim. I think Lisa’s estate will now go according to her will to Mrs. Pettigrew.”
“In that case,” said Miss Taylor, “she will, after all, have her reward.”
Mrs. Pettigrew had her reward. Lisa’s will was proved in her favour and she inherited all her fortune. After her first stroke Mrs. Pettigrew went to live in a hotel at South Kensington. She is still to be seen at eleven in the morning at Harrod’s Bank where she regularly meets some of the other elderly residents to discuss the shortcomings of the hotel management, and to plan various campaigns against the staff. She can still be seen in the evening jostling for a place by the door of the hotel lounge before the dinner gong sounds.
Charmian died one morning in the following spring, at the age of eighty-seven.
Godfrey died the same year as the result of a motor accident, his car having collided with another at a bend in Kensington Church Street. He was not killed outright, but died a few days later of pneumonia which had set in from the shock. It was the couple in the other car who were killed outright.
Guy Leet died at the age of seventy-eight.
Percy Mannering is in an old men’s home, where he is known as “The Professor” and is treated with special respect, having his bed put in an alcove at the far corner of the dormitory—a position reserved for patients who have known better days. His grand-daughter, Olive, sometimes visits him. She takes away his poems and letters to editors; she types them out, and despatches them according to Percy’s directions.